


Everything and Nothing at Once

by enigmaticdr



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Cancer Arc, F/M, Pregnancy, post iwtb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 14:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9075016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticdr/pseuds/enigmaticdr
Summary: Scully is, for the first time in nearly a decade, warming to the idea of saying she is “fine” and truly meaning it. Until her nose starts bleeding again. Post-IWTB.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for xf writing challenge prompt “Evidence”. This takes place shortly after the events of IWTB.

They have been living in the unremarkable house for almost three years, and Scully is, for the first time in nearly a decade, warming to the idea of saying she is “fine” and truly meaning it.

She and Mulder have their own little routine and she finally feels settled, grounded.

“We get to grow old, Scully,” he had said with a grin, reclining on their shabby front porch. And it is true: they are safe. She has found a modicum of happiness here, in this house where the sunlight comes in yellow through the bedroom window in the morning, and where the crickets sing joyously at night.

She is bone tired, but her position at Our Lady is fulfilling in a way the FBI never was and she comes home feeling exhausted but purposeful. Mulder saves the world through his computer screen and is safe in his office when she comes home to him each night, and it is enough.

Summer slips into fall like a hand into a leather glove. The days are shorter and the nights are longer and work in Pediatrics speeds up once the kids are back at school. She finds herself staying longer after the end of her shifts, visiting patients one last time, helping out in the flooded ER, filling out the paperwork stacked on every spare surface of her office. Come December, she is relatively unsurprised by the spells of lethargy that settle over her shoulders like the heavy snow on rooftops.

For days she bites back yawns and tries to eliminate the sleepiness from her system with energy-boosting morning jogs, but each night is the same: she’s achy and ready for sleep by early evening. Too tired for dinner, too tired for late night television re-runs, too tired for sex. Scully falls asleep at six each night and sleeps deliciously deeply until six the next morning, when her alarm goes off. Even then, pulling herself out of bed is like pulling a sack full of rocks from the bottom of a well.

Mulder teases gently and pokes at her underneath the covers, but she can see the concern in his eyes. He comes out of his office one day after a few hours on the computer, grumbling at her about anemia. He refuses to leave her alone until she writes herself a prescription for iron supplements. He puts one on her plate each day, watching diligently as she swallows it down with water. It can’t hurt and it makes him happy, so she does it.  

She starts missing her period too. She waits and waits, rushing to the bathroom at each tiny hint of cramps, but nothing happens. She folds a piece of toilet paper into her underwear just in case and thinks of the mounting stress of her residency in pediatrics.

Mulder notices, because he has spent his whole life noticing details that others try to hide. He lectures her about long hours and double shifts and stress management. He gets up early and makes her lunch, packing it into a brown bag and making sure she takes it with her to work. When she comes home, he inspects the empty containers to make sure she’s eaten what he’s made. He becomes a regular mother hen, and while she deems it completely unnecessary, she appreciates it and tells him so, kissing him on the cheek.

The iron supplements don’t seem to help, and it’s then she knows it must be something different.

“Early menopause,” she tells him one night, admitting it to herself, too, and he doesn’t ask again, just rubs her shoulders soothingly when she leans wearily against the kitchen counter with her fists covering her wet eyes. She doesn’t know why she’s so upset by it, but it seems like the end of something all the same and Scully has never done well with saying goodbye.

It is alright, though. It feels good to have an explanation. She listens to her body and sleeps more, coming home from her shifts at a reasonable hour. Mulder takes her to bed and she loves him because he makes her feel young and he makes her feel loved.

It is okay, and Scully is fine. She really is.

Until her nose begins to bleed again.

It’s a Tuesday evening and she’s resting in the bath, head tipped backwards against the rim, listening absently to the comforting domestic noises of Mulder puttering around on the lower level. There’s a tickle in her throat, and when she coughs, the white porcelain beside her head is suddenly speckled with flecks of red. She sits up quickly, sending suds slopping lethargically over the side of the tub, and swipes her wet fingers across her upper lip. They come away a watery red.

She swishes her hand in the warm water and swipes again. This time there is more of it, the copper liquid dribbling into her palm and down her wrist in little teardrop streaks.

She reaches over to the toilet paper stand and crumples several sheets into her hand, bringing the wad up to her nose to stem the flow. She pulls the chain on the plug for the tub with her toe, and with a gurgle, it begins to empty slowly. She stands and wraps herself in a fresh navy towel from the closet, avoiding the light pink ones she’d hung on the rack earlier that week.

Scully can hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears and she can feel it pulsing through her body, hands shaking and fingertips cold as she holds the ball of toilet paper against her nose. When she looks in the mirror, her face is ghostly white and her pupils look huge and black. She hears Mulder’s footsteps on the stairs and reaches over blindly to flick the lock into place. She runs the tap for cover noise to muffle the sound of her breathing which feels forced and wheezy inside her chest.  

The evidence falls heavily, dreadfully, into place. The sleeping spells. The lethargy. The irregular periods. It was never menopause after all. She kicks herself for not knowing. For not seeing the symptoms for what they were. Fool me twice, shame on me, she tells her reflection. A frightened tear slips down her cheek. She brushes it angrily away and then she sits down on the closed lid of the toilet and tries to get control of herself.

The nosebleed stops soon enough. She takes a deep breath and flushes the wad of toilet paper down the toilet. She glances in the mirror, tipping her head up to ensure that all trace evidence is gone.

When she comes to bed, Mulder is already under the covers and the room is dark. For this she thanks God, because she’s sure the truth is written all over her face, clear as day. The darkness hides it, though, keeps it a secret, safe within her.

She sits down on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in her towel, and picks up her brush from her bedside table, combing it gently through her hair.

“You smell good,” he mumbles from behind her, rolling over onto his back to place his hand on her hip. His thumb brushes back and forth over the towel in soft strokes.

She puts the brush back on the nightstand and suddenly she is turning, is moving towards him, over him, and the towel falls away in a damp heap onto the floor.

“Easy,” he whispers, hands caressing her back to calm her as she moves desperately to straddle his body, her lips and teeth marking him. He puts his hand under her chin and brings her face up to his, kissing her deeply as her damp hair curls around their faces.

He is hard and ready and she pushes his boxers down his legs. They fall to the floor with a whisper of fabric. Scully holds his hands as she sinks down onto him, biting her lip and squeezing his fingers between hers. Past the sharp twinge there is pleasure already building, already swooning within her body, the joy and warmth of his touch melding with the cold dark lump in her nasal cavity. Her breathing is fast, too fast, but she needs this, needs his touch to ground her and settle her and make her think of nothing else but the love there is between them.

“Touch me,” she says, and places his palms on her breasts. He squeezes gently and runs his thumbs over her nipples. She sighs in approval and he does it again, harder, more insistent. “Yes,” she encourages, squeezing her muscles around him.

When she comes she cries out, and it is liberation. She slumps her shoulders, slothful and sated, and he folds her tired body down against his, holding her close to his chest as he moves his hips hurriedly beneath hers and finishes with a groan.

“I love you,” he mumbles in her ear, moving her damp hair back with his cheek. He rolls them to the side and wraps the comforter around her shoulders, spooning her comfortably from behind.

It takes thirty seconds for the guilt to flood back in.

The rest of the week passes uneventfully. She wanders past the lab at work several times, hesitating in the entryway, but she cannot bring herself to enter. She can’t bring herself to know for sure quite yet. As long as there is uncertainty, there is hope, and she isn’t able to snuff it out just yet. It would be to final, too terrible. She puts her hair in a ponytail and takes a deep breath, straightens her lab coat and grabs some charts, determined to set the matter aside for now and continue her work.

At home she avoids his eyes, and pretends.

She wakes up one morning early in the next week to Mulder shaking her shoulder and calling her name worriedly. When she opens her eyes, there are small strands of her hair matted to her cheek and the pillow is spotted with blood. There’s a few streaks of red on the comforter as well, and when she brings her hand up to cover her face it comes away sticky with copper coloured blood.

She looks at him and he is shaking, paler than the white walls of the bedroom, eyes wide and frightened.

“It’s okay,” he says, stumbling from the bed and rushing to the dresser, plucking six Kleenex from the box and bunching them in his hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay Scully, it’s okay.” He rushes back over and clamps the Kleenexes over her nose, his other hand cupping the back of her skull firmly.

She tries to push his arm away. “Mul-,”

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he repeats frantically, and he is trembling from head to foot.

“Mulder stop -,” she tries to turn her head.

“Just tip your head back Scully, just tip it back –,”

“I said _stop_ ,” she urges, and pushes his hand away, holding the tissues herself. She turns away from him because seeing his face right now hurts too much, aches inside her chest.

“What is it, Scully?” his voice is quiet and small, but it sounds deafening in the echoing silence of early morning in the still bedroom.

“What do you want me to say?” she answers with her back to him, head bowed and Kleenex pressed against her upper lip.

“Tell – tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

Silence.

He comes around to the other side of the bed and kneels before her, tipping her chin up to meet her eyes. “Tell me, Scully.”

“Mulder…” she whispers, and pulls him towards her, wrapping her arm around his neck and pressing his head against her chest.

This time, it’s he that pushes away. “How long have you known?”

“I only realized it last week,” she whispers, and picks at the fluff on the ruined comforter.

“When were you planning to tell me?” he asked, and there is anger there, in his eyes, anger driven by fear.

“I don’t want to fight,” she implores quietly, reaching for his hand. He pulls away, stumbling backwards and bumping into the dresser.

“No, it’s not – it’s not true, there’s some other explanation -,” he grabs his laptop from his bedside table and opens it up.

“Mulder,” she entreats, reaching for him as she stands up. “All the evidence is there -,” and then her head is spinning and her body feels light as a feather, vision black. The dizziness takes over.

When she starts to fall he is there, one arm around her waist and the other supporting the back of her head as he lowers her slowly to the ground.

“Scully. Scully!”

She thinks of kisses and hallways and bee stings. She thinks of near death experiences and it makes it hard to breathe.

Before her hearing fades out and she loses consciousness, she hears him using her cellphone to call for an ambulance.

The next time she wakes up, there is an IV needle taped to the inside of her elbow, and there’s the telltale rhythmic beeping of the machine beside her bed. She turns her head to the side and Mulder is there, sitting in a plastic chair beside her, his hands clenched in his lap and his leg jiggling in time with the monitor’s beeping.

The door opens and the doctor – an older female colleague she’s had lunch with a few times before – walks into the small room holding a file.

“Dr. Scully,” she greets, and then nods at Mulder. “I’m glad you’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” she answers, and it is mostly true. There’s no dizziness, no headache. There’s just an encompassing feeling of tiredness.

It is a silent killer that she knows so well. Like an old friend, she remembers it well once she’s spent some time with it.

“I’ve got your results from the lab,” her doctor says, and opens the folder. Scully reaches out and grasps Mulder’s hand. His face is grim and pale but he strokes his thumb softly over the back of her hand, squeezing her palm in support.

“I assume I’ll be starting treatments immediately,” Scully says, beating the older woman to whatever she had opened her mouth to say. It makes her feel in control.

“Treatments?” The doctor looks at her with a surprised, slightly bemused expression. She double checks the chart in her hand. “There’s no treatment needed here but some rest and some patience. Your nosebleeds are from nothing more than swollen vessels in your nose. It happens quite often – it’s normal in this situation.” She hands Scully the chart so she can see for herself.

“There’s a mistake,” Scully says, flipping the paper over to check the patient name. “There’s a mistake,” she repeats, and her voice is shaky.

“Scully?” Mulder murmurs.

“I…” she tries to explain, but loses her train of thought.

The doctor steps closer to the bed to read the file over Scully’s shoulder. “You’re pregnant, Dana. Seven weeks.”

Scully is speechless. Finally, she manages to move her leaden lips. “I can’t have children.” It comes out as a whisper.

“The evidence is all there. I thought you’d want to see for yourself.”

The doctor tells her she will give them some time alone and be back in fifteen minutes to discuss options if Scully would like, and then hands Scully the pyjamas she arrived in this morning, and closes the door behind her with a soft click.

Mulder is out of his chair the moment she is gone, up on the bed with her, his arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders. He rocks slightly, and his back trembles when she reaches up to return his tight embrace.

“Not cancer,” he murmurs against her ear, and he is shaking with relief. His hands tangle in her hair.

“Not cancer,” she whispers in wonderment, tucking her face into his neck.

He takes her home and they eat some left overs, not really speaking. The stillness in the kitchen is one for processing, for recovering. It folds around her like a warm blanket and helps her get her thoughts straight.

It is late morning, but they are both drawn to their bedroom and the big soft bed regardless of the hour. Mulder slips under the comforter and holds the other side up for her, and she climbs in to lie beside him. His arms wrap around her, one under her neck and the other settling to rest softly against the flat skin of her belly. There is no evidence there yet, but she knows there will be, very soon.

“Do you want this?” he asks.

She thinks of Emily. Of William. Her heart twinges. _Everything happens for a reason, Starbuck._

“Yes,” she answers, after a long moment.

“Are you okay?” he shifts closer and she tucks her head in the crook of his neck.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, and this time, she truly means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
